Summer 2012 • Vol. XXXIV No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 2012 |

My Buried Life

"'But often, in the din of strife, there rises an unspeakable desire after the knowledge of our buried life …" Mr. Lunsford was at the front of the classroom, reading to us, as he often did, when he turned to the wide casement windows and collapsed as if he had been let go from above. One of the Greene twins ran for Ms. Everland, and Jimmy Nadeau called 911, but somehow we all knew and no one spoke. Outside snow was falling on the frozen fields, and the trees with their bare limbs were like scarecrows. Alpena was on Lake Huron, near the Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary where my stepfather did his research, but Mr. Lunsford was from Mississippi, and he had not lost his accent or his way of addressing women as ma'am and men as sir. He was tall and potbellied, with black, springy hair and dark-brown eyes, and wore jeans to school, most days, and a heavy black trench coat he had found years ago, he said, in a charity shop in Cambridge. He had lived in England for a year, and

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Harold Carlisle

By Judy Troy

"'But often, in the din of strife, there rises an unspeakable desire after the knowledge of our buried life …" Mr. Lunsford was at the front of the classroom, reading […]

Sorry

By Judy Troy

"'But often, in the din of strife, there rises an unspeakable desire after the knowledge of our buried life …" Mr. Lunsford was at the front of the classroom, reading […]

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